


wise men choose their lords

by evocates



Series: requested works [8]
Category: Chì bì | Red Cliff (2008), San Guo Yan Yi | Romance of the Three Kingdoms - All Media Types, Shin Sangokumusou | Dynasty Warriors, 關雲長ㅣThe Lost Bladesman (2011)
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Chinese Culture, Chinese History - Freeform, Gen, Gender Issues, Honor, Leadership, POV Multiple, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Sexism, Please Look at the Summary Instead, Politics, Tags Are Hard, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:13:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21682810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evocates/pseuds/evocates
Summary: Chinese title: 《雨天读孟，唯有礼仁智》 (studying Mencius on a rainy day; I find only etiquette, humanity, and wisdom.)It is said: for the want of strong generals, Cao Cao lost the war. It is said: for the want of clever strategists, Cao Cao lost the war.A twist of fate: Guo Jia survives his illness, and the Battle of the Red Cliffs goes very differently.And now it will be said: it is a pity that good men are rarely wise men; if they were so, they would not die for unworthy lords.(Subtitle: “A Treatise on Loyalty and Worthy Leadership.”)Complete.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: requested works [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1563052
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Renard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renard/gifts).



> Written for a commission made by Renard, who donated actual money to Egale Canada for this. Thank you so much! 
> 
> This is based on a jumbled mess of both _Red Cliffs_ films, _The Lost Bladesman_ movie _,_ the _Dynasty Warriors_ series of games, the _Romance of the Three Kingdoms_ novel, and history itself (based off _Records of the Three Kingdoms_ ). The primary canon is still the two _Red Cliffs_ films, but I picked and chose whatever I liked out of the rest, and threw them all together into something that’s hopefully coherent. So, please don’t expect strict adherence to _Red Cliffs_. In fact, please don’t expect strict adherence to _anything_.
> 
> The English title comes from Cao Cao’s line to Guan Yu during their confrontation in _Red Cliffs, Part I_. The Chinese title is a riddle that leads to a four-character phrase, and will be explained in the fic. All chapter titles are lyrics of [御龙吟](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HdMl0ICg5z8), translated by me.
> 
> Finally, in this period of China, people don’t call each other by their legal names (i.e. Guan Yu is never ‘Yu,’ and only ‘Guan Yu’ when he’s referred to when he’s not present.) People use courtesy names instead. Those names will be introduced at the beginning of every chapter that they appear. 
> 
> Beta’d by kikibug13, who watched both _Red Cliffs_ films as well as _The Lost Bladesman_ for me.
> 
>  **Warnings:** I really like Wei, and I think the valorisation of Shu in _Romance_ is a classic example of everything that’s wrong with Chinese culture. This fic reflects that perfectly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Courtesy names:  
> Cao Cao: 孟德 Mengde; Guan Yu: 云长 Yunchang; Xiahou Dun: 元让 Yuanrang; Zhang Liao:文远 Wenyuan; Cao Xiu:文烈 Wenlië; Guo Jia: 奉孝 Fengxiao; and Xu Chu: Xu Zhongkang.

**御龙顺水而行**  
_"the imperial dragon follows the river rushing.”_

The battlefield had its own unique music of chaos, made up of the heavy beats of messenger drums, the rhythmic thumps of feet and hooves, and the yells and screams of killing and dying men. As infantry soldiers under the Cao flag charged forward to meet their equals of Liu Bei’s supposed army of the Han dynasty, the early afternoon sun glinted off the red streaks on the tips of their spears. More blood splashed on the sand, vanishing as quickly as men died. 

Seated on his horse and surrounded by his best Generals whom he had forbidden to enter the fray – it wouldn’t do if Liu Bei was crushed here, after all – Cao Mengde tilted his head up. The desert sun was bright enough to sear skin, and Liu Bei’s form appeared like a writhing shadow upon golden sand: plain-clothed, unarmed, and fleeing exactly like the peasants around him.

How much of this loss was due to Liu Bei’s desire to save the peasants from Mengde’s supposedly tyrannical rule? How many of those orders to his generals were motivated by that fact that he knew he would lose, and wanted a righteous excuse to do so?

Metal clattered. Liu Bei’s infantry broke formation, gold-painted shields folding away as ten to twenty men stepped aside at once. A familiar figure ran forward, steady feet thumping and hands clutched around a long glaive with a blade that, Mengde knew, was far crueller and sharper than the man wielding it.

Guan Yunchang’s beard had grown back, Mengde noted as he admired how Liu Bei’s sworn younger brother danced through Mengde’s troops, cutting men down like their armour was nothing more than finely-woven silk. His long hair swayed with the wind with every whirl of his heel, the glossy strands shimmering, incongruously night-dark amidst the blazing day.

What mattered a few lowly infantry soldiers, Mengde thought as blood of his men spilled beneath that glinting glaive, if the sacrifice of their lives brought him a sight like this?

A horse pulled up next to his. “Let me fight him,” a familiar, well-loved voice hissed in his ear.

“Have patience, Yuanrang,” Mengde murmured, barely moving his lips. “You will get your chance.”

“He will die under my sword one day,” Yuanrang hissed. “Mark my words, Mengde.”

Long years had made it unnecessary to turn his head to know Yuanrang’s frustration; had allowed him to smile, too, knowing that Yuanrang would obey Mengde’s orders, no matter his twisting want to beat Yunchang to the ground and claim superiority.

“Of that I have no doubts,” Mengde said.

The air of the battlefield shifted, whipping Yuanrang’s head aside to follow the source before he could reply. 

A white horse streaked through the battlefield, carrying a rider curled around a bundle wrapped in cloth. Patches of that cloth shone as pale as his horse; it would be white if it was not so stained with blood and dirt. 

So, Zhao Zilong had survived, and so had Liu Bei’s months-old son. 

Turning his head, Mengde asked in a voice loud enough to be heard by Yunchang: “Who is that man?”

“Replying Your Excellency,” replied his nephew Wenlië, head ducked down to hide the smirk curling his lips. “That is Changshan’s Zhao Zilong.”

“A brave warrior indeed,” he said. Exchanging a glance with the leader of his famed Tiger and Leopard Cavalry, he continued, “Why do I not have such courageous warriors among my army?”

Wenlië withdrew, shoulders shuddering.

At the same time, Zhao Zilong had flung himself off of his horse, hands outstretched for the bundle that had been torn from his arms by the lucky twist of a soldier’s spear. He grabbed onto it and fell to the ground on his back, managing to keep the infant from smashing face-first into his armour. Wenlië made an appreciative sound at the sight, and Mengde had to concur: that had taken some skill.

Liu Bei’s strategist called for a retreat soon after, his hawk-feather fan whipping through the air. Zhang Fei shrieked, “Er-ge!” even as he tried to fight through the troops that had bull-rushed him to try to stop him from getting to Liu Bei’s drummers. Yunchang’s reply was lost in the din, but the set of his jaw and the stiffening of his legs as he stood his ground spoke well enough: he planned to cover for the retreat.

It would be nice, Mengde thought, to have him as a guest again. Surely Yunchang’s loyalty to his lord and sworn older brother would have wavered a little after not one but _two_ abandonments?

Then a familiar glaive, now bloodstained, was right in front of his face. Mengde gave a long, slow blink.

“Ah, Yuanrang,” Mengde said, raising his voice so his trusted general could hear him over his surely-pounding heartbeat, “it’s not Yunchang’s time to die yet.” 

Giving nothing but a grunt in reply, Yuanrang swung himself off of the horse. Yunchang was surrounded by over ten soldiers, their spears held at his throat, but he broke the wooden staffs like they were hollow bamboo instead of solid oak. He grabbed one and held it with both hands, bracing himself right as one of Yuanrang’s swords came crashing down upon his head. 

From behind, Mengde could not see Yuanrang’s ferocious grin. But he knew its presence from the set of his shoulders and the twist of his wrist as he pulled the other sword from his back and jabbed it towards Yunchang’s unprotected abdomen. Yunchang dodged it with light steps backwards, picking another spear from the ground and charging at Yuanrang.

A horse drew up next to him. Mengde kept his eyes on the fight in front of him even as another of his favoured generals dismounted and saluted him on bent knee.

“Your Excellency,” Zhang Wenyuan said, raising his voice to be heard above the din of clashing steel, “Liao was successful.” 

This man had been given the task of raiding the town that Liu Bei had taken refuge in right before this very battle. Mengde had known that Liu Bei would immediately abandon his wives and child the moment that his own life looked to be in danger – he had done so before, after all – and Wenyuan had the orders to—

“Liu Bei’s two wives are dead, and his son had been taken by Zhao Zilong.”

“I saw,” Mengde nodded. “Well done, Wenyuan.”

“This lowly soldier has only done what he must, and thanks His Excellency for the praise,” Wenyuan replied, the barest trace of humour threaded into the formal words. Mengde lifted a hand to dismiss him, and then changed his mind mid-trajectory.

He motioned to the blade still in front of him. “Yuanrang would prefer a fair battle, don’t you think?” he asked.

“General Xiahou would be displeased at a victory gained by his enemy being at a disadvantage,” Wenyuan agreed. Still on the ground, he hefted Yunchang’s glaive up from where the tip had been embedded into the sand. Then, with both hands, he threw.

It flew over the heads of the infantry soldiers, causing some of them to duck and yell so as to not be beheaded by the bloodstained blade. With one swift motion and without making a sound, Yunchang dropped both stolen spears, snatched his weapon from the air with both hands, and brought it to bear against the weight of Yuanrang’s twin swords.

“I wonder if your lord would hand me my blades if I was ever captured by him,” Yuanrang snarled into Yunchang’s face, voice resonant even amidst the chaos of the still-fighting infantry soldiers. “No, I need not ask, because I know he would not.”

Face like stone, Yunchang yanked the blade of his glaive out of the lock of Yuanrang’s swords. He did not reply.

“He is a man who came to the imperial capital asking for refuge from Mengde,” Yuanrang continued, his dive to attack unfaltering even as he spoke. “And while he enjoyed Mengde’s hospitality, he plotted to assassinate him.”

Yunchang struck back, sweeping his glaive downwards to take out Yuanrang’s legs. Yuanrang jumped over it even as he stabbed one sword forward at Yunchang’s throat, the tip ghosting over skin as Yunchang reared his head back.

“Then again,” Yuanrang continued, “an ungrateful bastard like you, who takes the lives of those sworn to the man who has saved his, and a dishonourable bastard like Liu Bei… No wonder the two of you are sworn brothers.” 

Ducking beneath Yuanrang’s lunge, Yunchang gripped his glaive with both hands. His shoulders shifted back and he flung it forward.

Wenyuan jumped up, catching the glaive one-handed before its shadow could even touch that of Mengde’s horse.

“You—” Yuanrang growled.

But Yunchang wasn’t listening anymore. A runaway horse had approached, and he grabbed it by its bridle now, swinging himself up in a show of skill that nearly had Mengde whistling in admiration. Then he pulled on the reins, forcefully turning the horse’s head until it was running towards Mengde himself.

As he came to a stop, Mengde raised a hand. Then, as Yunchang’s gaze settled on him, Mengde turned his wrist, and Wenyuan placed the glaive on his palm with his head lowered.

It was as heavy as he had expected. But he had not been neglecting of his own training, no matter how overprotective his generals were towards him, and he bore the weight easily.

“Here,” he said, offering the glaive to Yunchang. “You will not be yourself without it.”

With both hands, Yunchang took the glaive. His chin dipped downwards in a nod that could almost be interpreted as respectful before he spun the horse around and rode in the direction where his sworn older brother had disappeared.

Yuanrang held out a hand, stopping both infantry soldiers and the other generals from giving chase. “Your indulgences are going to get you killed one day, Mengde,” he said, barely keeping his voice low. “And I will be here, shaking my head and reminding you of my warnings just once more.”

“Indulge my follies, Yuanrang,” Mengde replied, one corner of his lips twitching upwards despite himself. “Surely with such fierce warriors by my side, I am allowed such a thing?” He waved a hand to the side, motioning towards Yuanrang’s horse.

Wenyuan snorted even as he climbed onto his own, back straightening the moment he settled into the saddle. His eyes slid over to Mengde for a moment before he shook his head, smiling.

“He’s too damned polite to tell you that you can’t insult yourself without insulting the rest of us, Mengde,” Yuanrang said, voice dryly amused as he gripped the reins of his own steed. “We are not men who will gladly follow a foolish lord.”

“No,” Mengde murmured, glancing from Yuanrang to Wenyuan to Wenlie, then to the others still silently waiting behind him, all of them trusting him with not only their own lives, but also the future of their shattered world and dynasty. “I suppose not.”

The Lord Preceptor once again demonstrated his wisdom and foresight when he had the Han army set up camp an hour’s walk away from the town that Liu Bei had taken refuge in. It was far enough from the battlegrounds of both Jiangling – where Liu Bei had taken refuge and so had drawn the Lord Preceptor’s attack upon the civilians in the town – and Changban Slope, and yet not such a great distance that the soldiers, already tired from fighting, would have to suffer greatly before having a chance to rest. 

If Wenyuan had learned anything under his previous lord Lü Bu, it was the delicate balance that had to be kept between expecting unquestioning obedience from soldiers and understanding that they had their own needs that had to be fulfilled if they were to follow orders. After all, hungry soldiers would steal and loot, no matter how high the whip was held above their heads or how sharp and red-hot its steel tips.

Wenyuan made to check on his platoon that had arrived before him – he had gone alone to Changban to meet the Lord Preceptor while sending his men ahead to the camp to have their wounds treated – when General Xiahou caught his attention with a twitch of his fingers. The general jerked his head.

Lowering his own in acknowledgment, Wenyuan made to follow both General Xiahou and the Lord Preceptor to the command tent. He had barely taken a step within before the General whirled upon him, fixing him with a hard stare that was, somehow, intensified by the eyepatch that covered the gaping hole that was once his left eye.

“Zhao Zilong survived long enough to bring Liu Bei’s son to him,” he stated without any preamble. “I know you’re more than strong enough to go directly against him, Wenyuan, so why didn’t you?” He took one step forward. “Do you have qualms against killing an infant, now?”

“Come now, Yuanrang, don’t be so harsh on him,” the Lord Preceptor said before Wenyuan could even think of speaking. “I ordered him to let Zhao Zilong and the boy go.”

“Mengde,” General Xiahou practically snarled. “You should know that’s a terrible idea.”

Even after years in the Lord Preceptor’s service, Wenyuan _still_ could not get over how casually General Xiahou addressed their lord. He could understand if he did so only in private – and would chastise himself for having opinions on things he should not have even heard – but General Xiahou had _always_ spoken to the Lord Preceptor in this way, no matter the situation.

“Zhao Zilong is needed as a symbol of strength,” another voice said, coming from the heavy curtains that shielded part of the Lord Preceptor’s personal quarters within the command tent from sight. “His valour in rescuing that child is as much part of the plan as it was for Liu Bei to have abandoned his family within the town.”

The voice that spoke was deep like a man’s, but layers upon layers of silk swept across the canvas-covered floor of the tent as the curtains were pulled aside. Unbound black hair swayed with each step, the dark strands spilling over shoulders to tease at the waist. From beneath the pale-coloured cloth peeked even paler wrists, the skin soft and unmarred like one of the Emperor’s young daughters.

One of those hands landed on General Xiahou’s elbow, and eyes almost the colour of true black except for sparse brown flecks lit up with humour. “Liu Bei’s troops are few, and though his generals are known for their might, it has been some time since they have put on a grand show.” As General Xiahou scowled, the sides of those eyes creased.

“It’s an incentive.” Each word was carefully pronounced. “For Sun Quan to agree to an alliance with Liu Bei.”

“Fengxiao,” the Lord Preceptor said, sounding amused. “Surely there is no need for you to dress as such when we are the only ones here?”

The Military Libationer, chief advisor and strategist of the Han dynasty’s Lord Preceptor, reached up and tugged off the veil that covered him from the bridge of the nose to the top of his chest. His smile widened even further as he swept out his arms with a flourish, and tucked his hands against one hip.

“Your Excellency,” he greeted, and bent his knees like a woman.

A year ago, on the way back to Xu after the Battle of the White Wolf Mountain where the Lord Preceptor had pacified Wuhan and finally rid himself of the threats posed by Yuan Shao and his sons, Fengxiao had fallen ill. Rumours had abounded among the soldiers then that Fengxiao was near death, because he had the intelligence and perception of a thousand-year-old fox of legend, and the fever had forced him into mumbling incoherencies. 

The Lord Preceptor, the story went, had been called back urgently from the battlefield. And Fengxiao, after speaking to his sworn and honoured Lord, had finally let go of life and headed peacefully into death.

Part of that was true: Fengxiao _had_ fallen ill. But the deathbed visit of rumours was in fact a strategy meeting. With Wenyuan and General Xiahou as witnesses, Fengxiao had sat up from his bed and, with the stench of the medicine that had saved his life still on his breath, urged the Lord Preceptor to pretend that he had died. Fengxiao had argued that his own reputation would make the Lord Preceptor’s enemies wary against battling him; if they knew he was dead, they might be tempted to let down their guard. 

So, the Lord Preceptor had stood in front of a pyre lit around a straw dummy, and murmured Fengxiao’s name while letting a few tears fall. It had been an absolute farce of a fake funeral, tempting the gods to truly drag Fengxiao into the realm of the dead.

But Fengxiao had lived, and the paleness of his skin now showed only the flush of health that reddened his cheeks.

“You seemed to have taken the role of a concubine quite well,” the Lord Preceptor murmured, one brow arched as he reached out with a hand. “Should I make it a permanent position?”

“This lowly servant will be honoured by any position that His Shining Excellency wishes to give,” Fengxiao said. He lifted his eyes and batted his lashes at the Lord Preceptor.

Beside Wenyuan, General Xiahou slapped a hand over his face and sighed. The Lord Preceptor chuckled, his hand falling back to his side after barely brushing over Fengxiao’s jaw. “What is it, Yuanrang?” he asked.

“I get that we have to ensure that Liu Bei ally with Sun Quan to ensure that we can capture the Southlands,” the General said, clearly deciding that returning to strategy was a far better option than contemplating the Lord Preceptor’s strange relationship with Fengxiao. “But allowing Zhao Zilong to do such a thing is giving him a chance to become a legend.” He paused. 

“And we’ve all seen what reputation can do.”

It was only long years of training that allowed Wenyuan to stifle the instinctive flinch. The peasants fleeing from the Lord Preceptors today had surely done so because they were taken in by Liu Bei’s reputation for mercy and righteousness as well as the Lord Preceptor’s for tyranny. It didn’t matter that Liu Bei was a traitor several times over, or that the Lord Preceptor had won his wars and gathered a huge army by ensuring that all of his soldiers were fed: stories had always held greater power than truth, especially if the latter was too complex to be spun into easily-swallowed tales.

“We have,” Fengxiao nodded. “But there is a solution to that, General.”

“Of course there is, for my Fengxiao is clever,” the Lord Preceptor pronounced, folding his arms around his chest. “What it is?”

“If in life they were writ large as legends…” Fengxiao paused, one pale hand slipping into the opposite sleeve. He withdrew a fan and snapped it open, but the silk – painted to depict the Yangtze winding through the mountains of the Southland – did nothing to hide his smile. “We must ensure that they die as small, insignificant men.”

“How are we to accomplish this?” the Lord Preceptor raised an eyebrow. Beside him, General Xiahou had fallen silent, the tension in his shoulders showing that he was paying Fengxiao his fullest attention.

“Legends are made through righteous deeds in grand battles,” Fengxiao said. He cocked his head, the edges of his fan brushing the underside of one eye. “Or from the fall of righteous man into unvirtuous behaviour.”

Wenyuan’s breath hitched. “You mean…”

“Rumours have already been spread that His Shining Excellency,” Fengxiao nodded to the Lord Preceptor, “has brought over eight hundred thousand men. By now, word would have spread to the Southlands.” A single flap of his fan. “Though Zhou Yu and Zhuge Liang are not stupid men, there will be enough of those within Liu Bei’s army and Sun Quan’s court who will take the number of eight hundred thousand to be the truth, and they must be appeased.” He trailed off significantly.

“Eight hundred thousand are difficult to feed,” General Xiahou smiled thinly. “So, they would expect that you want a huge battle. A climatic one that finishes quickly, and which will determine the future.”

“Well said, Yuanrang,” the Lord Preceptor nodded. “And that is something that Sun Quan would want as well.” A smirk tugged on the corner of his lips. “He is nothing more than an untested kitten striving to become the tiger his father and brother were.”

“His Shining Excellency is clear-sighted,” Fengxiao murmured. When the Lord Preceptor laughed in response, he dipped his head as if receiving praise.

Then he turned away, heading over to the great desk that had taken nearly half a platoon to carry from Xu. Slipping a scroll from the pile, he spread it out upon the wooden surface.

It was a map of the region. They had reached this area barely a week ago, and Fengxiao had mostly been confined behind curtains and walls like the concubine he was pretending to be, but Wenyuan felt absolutely no surprise that he had been able to get his hands on something like this.

“We are here,” Fengxiao pointed, “twenty miles from Changban. Two days of marching at a quick speed,” a little over a hundred miles, Wenyuan translated mentally, “and we will reach Jiangling, right on the edge of the Dongtian lake.” His finger circled the water that took up nearly the entire bottom third of the map. 

“Liu Bei will head southwards to meet Sun Quan and Zhou Yu,” he continued. “Wulin faces Jiangling directly across Dongtian, so they will expect us to use that as the main battleground.” His lips twitched into a sharp smile, showing teeth. “Especially with this,” he traced the strip of land that bisected the lake into two, “right here.”

Wenyuan frowned. “They think that we will try to force them into a land battle.”

“The only naval troops I have,” the Lord Preceptor said, tapping his fingers on the edge of the map, “are those belonging to Cai Mao and Zhang Yun.” 

He did not need to finish the sentence: those two commanders were once under Liu Qi, who had been allied with Liu Bei; in other words, their loyalties were still to be tested.

“In truth, we’re at a disadvantage,” General Xiahou said, cutting through obfuscation like he always did. “Our soldiers have never fought upon water, and they are unused to both the terrain and the water of the Southlands.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “We not only have to watch out for Sun-Liu’s attacks, but disease as well.”

“All the more reason for us to finish this quickly,” Fengxiao nodded. “Or so Zhou Yu and Zhuge Liang would think.”

“Given that they will expect us to attack the very moment we settle in Jiangling,” Wenyuan said slowly, reaching out a hand to trace the town on the map. “Will we?”

Fengxiao snapped his fan open, and he smiled, showing teeth. “There is no greater fool,” he pronounced, “than a clever man who believes that he has predicted his enemy’s next move.” 

Heaving another sigh, General Xiahou shook his head. “Are you going to stop smirking and actually tell us your grand plan at any point?”

“Your Shining Excellency?” Fengxiao turned to the Lord Preceptor.

“Go ahead,” the man nodded, crossing his arms. “The credit for this is yours entirely, Fengxiao.”

And Fengxiao told them. Wenyuan’s mouth went very dry as he imagined the battle that would come; the blood that would be spilled upon soil and the pain that would be wrought. The images unfolded in his mind as he watched the Lord Preceptor lips twist sharply enough to show a hint of teeth. It was, Wenyuan thought, a cruel smile.

A truth known by all soldiers: nine out of ten lords were cruel, and the last simply had not yet turned his ruthlessness against his men. There was no doubt that the Lord Preceptor was one of the nine, for he spent the lives under his command easily. But the same hand he used to send them to their deaths, he used to dole out fair rations of food, and they were rewarded according to their deeds, not according to the connections they were born with or had made within the army.

He was a man entirely unlike who Liu Bei was reputed to be; he neither showed his soldiers overt concern nor pandered to their wishes. But, Wenyuan thought as he watched his lord trace his fingers over the path that the soldiers would take, he was not Liu Bei’s opposite, either; he was _Lü Bu’s_. 

The Lord Preceptor had sent his men to die, and would do so over and over again as the wars and battles raged on in this age of chaos. But men died as a matter of course, and soldiers perishing on the battlefield was merely a fact of war; all of them picked up a sword or a spear hoping that they would survive long enough to go home, but knowing, too, that it was unlikely. All they asked for was to not die for nothing.

When the Lord Preceptor’s men headed to their deaths, they knew that they died for a purpose; for something unselfish enough that they could believe in it.

Wenyuan knew the difference. His previous lord was Lü Bu, who had demanded unquestioning obedience from his soldiers even as he whipped them without reason, and who had shamelessly declared that he was sending soldiers to fight so that he could keep a beautiful woman he had stolen. Lü Bu was a fool that thought that his own martial prowess was enough to earn loyalty, and when he realised his mistake, he had already been betrayed.

“Yuanrang, take the command of the Tiger and Leopard Cavalry,” the Lord Preceptor said, the sudden sharpness of his tone jarring Wenyuan out of his thoughts. “You have seniority over Wenlië, but you must heed his advice as your second-in-command.”

Raising his arms, General Xiahou tucked the fingers of one hand behind the other. “This lowly soldier has heard his commands and will obey it,” he bowed.

“Wenyuan,” the Lord Preceptor turned to him, and Wenyuan straightened immediately. “I leave the Martial Guards to you.”

Breath tripping in his throat, Wenyuan swallowed. The Martial Guards were the surviving troops from when the Lord Preceptor had first raised an army against the tyrant Dong Zhuo nearly two decades ago; they were hardened, incredibly experienced, and near-fanatically loyal to the Lord Preceptor. To be given command of them, especially when the right should have been given to General Xiahou as the highest-ranking General…

Dipping his head down, Wenyuan saluted. “His Excellency’s commands have been heard and understood,” he said, pronouncing each word carefully. “This lowly soldier thanks His Excellency for the honour, and will do his utmost to fulfil them.” 

“Good,” the Lord Preceptor nodded. “The soldiers will have two weeks of rest before we head towards Jiangling.” His eyes landed on first General Xiahou, and then Wenyuan. “Make sure everything that has to be prepared has been by then.”

“Understood!” the two generals saluted again.

Turning to the Lord Preceptor, Fengxiao practically purred, “You have given me a great opportunity, Your Excellency.” He lowered his head into a deep bow. “I have always desired to pit my wits against that of Zhuge Liang’s, or Zhou Yu’s.” He made a laugh as dark as his loose hair. “To have both of them at once is my fortune indeed.”

“A scholar,” General Xiahou said, sounding mildly amused, “would simply send an invitation for a game of weiqi.”

“If Zhuge Kongming desired to be a scholar, he should have stayed in his mountain,” Fengxiao snorted. “And if Zhou Yu wished to stay with his books, he would not have sworn brotherhood with Sun Ce, and married the younger sister of Sun Ce’s wife.”

Looking at the light in those dark eyes, Wenyuan wondered: why _had_ he mentioned the younger of the Qiao sisters? 

“Now,” Fengxiao said, snapping his fan closed. His vicious smile had returned, stretching his lips wide enough to bare his teeth. “I think it’s time for His Excellency’s concubine to make several appearances, isn’t it?” His gaze slid to the Lord Preceptor.

“Indeed,” their lord said. He held out a hand. “Cai Mao and Zhang Yun should be arriving soon; we should give a proper welcome to those who have frequently warred and interacted with Zhou Yu.” 

Fengxiao bent his knees, once again a perfect imitation of the concubine he was pretending to be, and drew his veil over his nose.

“Inform the Generals to gather here in an hour,” the Lord Preceptor said, eyes fixed on Wenyuan. “Inform one of the men to tell the guards that Cai Mao and Zhang Yun should be announced with as much pomp and ceremony as we can manage at this time.”

Saluting again, Wenyuan spun on his heel and made his way out of the command tent. As he stepped over the threshold, he stopped, waiting for General Xiahou to receive his set of instructions so they could look to the men together and discuss plans for training.

“Close the flaps behind you,” the Lord Preceptor told him. Even without looking, Wenyuan knew he had waved his hand. 

Ah.

Without turning, Wenyuan reached up and did so. When he was outside, standing under the red-streaked sky, Xu Zhongkang – the Lord Preceptor’s personal bodyguard – caught his eye, and raised an eyebrow. Wenyuan nodded to him in both confirmation and greeting, and headed straight for the medics’ tent. 

No, the Lord Preceptor wasn’t like Lü Bu at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guo Jia isn’t a famous character within the _Three Kingdoms_ English fandom, because he died before this most famous battle, and he was a strategist instead of a badass general. But he is one of the most important figures: to put it in perspective, when Cao Cao lost the Battle of the Red Cliffs and was retreating back to Xu, he said, and I quote from _Records_ : “If Guo Fengxiao was around, I wouldn’t have ended up like this.”
> 
> Also, Guo Jia refers to and addresses Mengde as 明公because it is, as far as I can tell, the term he used in history. The first character literally means “bright, shining,” and the second means, “master (of the household/land).” I was a little liberal in my translation of it into “Shining Excellency,” but I think it fits.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Courtesy names:  
> Cao Cao: 孟德 Mengde; Guan Yu: 云长 Yunchang; Xiahou Dun: 元让 Yuanrang; Zhang Liao:文远 Wenyuan; Cao Xiu:文烈 Wenlië; and Guo Jia: 奉孝 Fengxiao.

**痴心与谁寄起，妾身无缘旧命**  
_“Where will this passion lead? This unworthy body cannot capture its previous fate.”_

* 妾 technically means “servant,” but it 1) is almost exclusively use as a first-person pronoun by women, especially when speaking to high-ranking men, and 2) also translates to “concubine.” You’ll see why I made the translation gender-neutral in the chapter itself.

“General,” Wenlië said. “The vanguard are already ten miles ahead.”

Calling them that, Yuanrang thought to himself, was surely Wenlië’s kindness speaking: the troops ahead of them, led by Zhang He and Gan Lao, were no better than bait. 

He could understand Fengxiao and Mengde’s reasoning: those two generals and the soldiers under them originally served under Yuan Shao, and had surrendered right before the battle that had won Mengde the war against his old friend turned fierce enemy. 

But a general who betrayed one lord was likely to betray another; for them to lead this first attack against the Sun-Liu army at this point was nothing more than a test.

One that, Yuanrang was sure, Zhang He had understood, but Gao Lan hadn’t.

“A few more moments,” Yuanrang murmured to his patiently waiting second-in-command. “Our horses are far faster than theirs, and it will not do for us to catch up with them too soon.”

Nodding, Wenlië turned his horse around and headed back down the formation to inform the troops. Out of the corner of Yuanrang’s one good eye, he could see a flag being raised to inform the Martial Guard stationed behind the Tiger and Leopard Cavalry.

Ah, Wenyuan; another surrendered general that Mengde had taken into his service instead of executing, and one who could be so easily suspected to have divided loyalties given his friendship with Guan Yunchang.

Yuanrang remembered perfectly well how Wenyuan had leapt up to catch the bastard’s glaive, however: there had not been a single moment of hesitation. No matter what Wenyuan might feel towards the man he called ‘old friend,’ he had chosen the lord to follow, and his heart and mind were set enough in that decision to push his body to act on his choice.

And that was reason plenty enough for him to be invited into Mengde’s inner circle of confidants along with Fengxiao and Yuanrang himself. Along with his martial and tactical skill, of course.

Overhead, the searing sun crawled across the sky. It had nearly reached its zenith right overhead when Wenlië rode up to him again. “Fifteen miles, General,” he announced. 

Yuanrang nodded. Thrusting an arm into an air, he raised his voice. “Ready!” 

Then, because these were battle-hardened, elite soldiers, he didn’t wait for them to prepare themselves: he immediately kicked his horse into a gallop and threw his weight forward.

They tore through the empty landscape, dust exploding beneath the horses’ hooves, and it didn’t take them very long to cross towards where Fengxiao had predicted Zhou Yu and Zhuge Liang would have laid their traps. He could see the signs of them everywhere: the ground here was too hard to leave prints even from warhorses pounding against it, but there was enough sand floating in the air to hint at the sabotage that had happened but a few minutes ago.

He could hear the metal clashing and men screaming from here. Turning his head, Yuanrang shouted, as loud as he could, “ _Slow_!” before he pulled the reins of his horse to stop it from charging blindly forward.

Fengxiao had told them that he could not predict the kind of formations that Zhou Yu and Zhuge Liang would use; there were too many possibilities. The spot where he had expected them to plan an ambush was a piece of flat land, after all: given that and a well-trained army, a strategist would only be limited by the formations that his soldiers were familiar with. And, Fengxiao had added, they had plenty of time to prepare, because Mengde’s army needed the time to set up the ships, prepare the equipment, and move everything into a battle-ready position.

Still, he had given a few possibilities that Zhou Yu and Zhuge Liang might choose. None of which, Yuanrang thought as he stared forward, seemed to fit right now. In fact, it wasn’t a formation that he recognised. It looked, oddly enough, like one of the discs that Taoist quacks claimed could help them predict the future.

Good thing that Fengxiao’s plans for Mengde’s trusted elites were made to fit _anything_ that their enemies could use.

The Cavalry knew their role: they were already spreading out into a single row with Yuanrang in the centre, most of them controlling their horses with the reins between their teeth while they reached for one of the thin spears slung across their backs and the equipment in their saddle-packs. Yuanrang took another glance to ensure the Martial Guard under Wenyuan’s leadership were a distance back before he turned back to the scene in front of him.

Zhang He and Gao Lan’s men were dying. They had been drawn into the formation and trapped inside and, as Yuanrang watched, spears stabbed into the bodies of horses and men alike, unseating the latter. The Sun-Liu infantry men then lifted the shields that formed the shape of the formation, dragging the downed cavalry within the deadlock and utterly destroying the supposed superiority a cavalry held over infantry.

But Zhang He’s infantrymen weren’t spared either: spears stabbed at their legs from in between and underneath the shield-walls, and chains were thrown outwards to loop around their necks. They, too, were dragged behind those same walls. 

Yuanrang could not see their fates, but he could imagine: the soldiers hidden behind the walls were all armed with swords and shields, and the ones forced to fall onto their backs were easy prey. Like the common festival game of spearing fish in a barrel. 

Raising a hand, Yuanrang tilted his head up. He nearly smiled when he realised that the white-robed figure of Zhuge Liang had risen. The one beside him, armoured and therefore far less obvious, had to be Zhou Yu. He, too, was standing, perfectly aware of the incoming danger.

“ _Fire_!” Yuanrang roared.

Spears flew from beside him, each one tied to a ceramic bottle stoppered with cloth that had been set aflame. All of them headed straight for the formation without bothering to differentiate between the Sun-Liu soldiers and Zhang He and Gao Lan’s. There had only been a single instruction given, after all: aim for bodies.

One intrepid soldier from the Sun-Liu army lifted his shield to block the spear coming at him. The wood snapped immediately. Ceramic slammed into metal.

It exploded.

The infantryman _screamed_ , terrified as the burning mixture of oil and saltpetre splattered all over his body, heating up his armour enough to melt it, sneaking beneath the metal to set aflame the cloth that protected his skin from chafing.

His voice was soon joined by others as more ceramic bottles landed on them. No man allowed in the Tiger and Leopard Cavalry, Yuanrang thought with grim satisfaction, would ever miss.

Drumbeats. Zhou Yu had his fan raised. Yuanrang watched as Sun-Liu soldier tried to get back into formation, Zhang Fei, Zhao Zilong, and even Guan Yunchang starting to yell as they tried to calm the panicking men and restore discipline. 

Turning to Wenlië, he nodded. In response, Wenlië held up a red flag.

At the very back of the two rows of Mengde’s elite troops, the drummers started. These drums were exactly the same ones as those used by Sun Quan’s army – Fengxiao had smiled and credited Cai Mao with the information when Yuanrang asked, but Yuanrang doubted the truth of that – and therefore confusing the soldiers as the beats they had been trained to follow suddenly became alien and strange.

“Break through, break through!” A familiar voice suddenly yelled. “Head for General Xiahou!” 

_Zhang He_. Yuanrang was unsurprised that he was still alive – no man became a general if he died first in an ambush – but he was nearly startled into smiling when he realised that Zhang He was rallying his troops, trying to get them to gather around him and create a formation.

“Wenlië,” he murmured, drawing the young man’s attention. “Help him.” He nodded to the struggling Zhang He.

Nodding sharply, Wenlië gripped his reins with both hands and charged straight into the formation. At the same time, Yuanrang threw his arm up again. This time, he swept it down until it was parallel to the ground.

Immediately, the Cavalry _moved_ , spreading out enough to allow the Martial Guard through. Wenyuan came first, riding up towards Yuanrang. He already had his bow out, Yuanrang noticed, and there was an arrow between his teeth.

He came to a stop at the same time as he notched the arrow and pulled the string back. Yuanrang slipped the flint from his own pack and clicked the two pieces together against the bundled cloth tied two inches behind the arrowhead.

A spark, and Wenyuan let go.

It flew straight towards Zhang He and then over his head, slamming straight into the chest of the Sun-Liu infantryman trying to stab his horse from behind. Wenyuan had used enough strength that the arrow buried itself into the man’s chest until the bundled cloth was pressed right against his armour.

The man screamed, trying to get it off. Others around him did the same, only to stop to place their shields over their heads as the Martial Guard followed their temporary commander’s example and let loose their own loaded arrows.

“ _Get down_!” Guan Yunchang screamed.

Too late: the flame that Yuanrang had lit had finally burnt through the cloth and touched the saltpetre-sulphur mix within. The explosion was even bigger and deadlier this time, shattering armour and bone and sending bits of steel and flesh spiralling outwards. As Yuanrang watched, satisfied, one flying shard of burning steel caught one soldier across the face and sliced across his eyes.

He screamed and, obeying Guan Yunchang, dropped to his knees.

“Go!” Zhang He screeched. “Move! Move, move, _move_!” 

His men had gathered themselves into a square, their shields turned outwards in the classic tortoise formation. Zhang He himself was on the outside of it, seated on his horse as he spurred his men forward, cutting down with his spear the enemies who tried to approach. Wenlië was on his opposite side, mirroring those movements with his own sword. As one, they charged, the thudding of desperate feet and hooves a counterpoint to the drums. 

The outer edge of Zhou Yu and Zhuge Liang’s formation smashed into disorganised pieces. Yuanrang smiled.

A plan that could handle any formation, indeed.

“General,” Wenyuan said. He had thrown his bow across his back again, and his hand was on the hilt of the sword strapped to his hip. “Shall we?”

“Wait,” Yuanrang murmured. A few more moments, until Zhang He and Wenlië were closing in on them, before he nodded, and threw up his hand.

“Attack!” he shouted in tandem with Wenyuan.

They charged forward, curving around the remnants of Zhang He’s soldiers. Wenlië, long used to Yuanrang, immediately turned his horse to move to Wenyuan’s other side. Yuanrang watched him for a few short moments before his gaze flicked back to Zhang He, deliberately riding close enough to catch the other general’s eye. Unsheathing his sword, he smacked him hard on the shoulder with the flat of the blade. 

Zhang He rocked forward, but remained on his horse like the well-trained warrior he was. As Yuanrang turned his head to keep his gaze on the other man, he nodded, grabbed the reins of his horse, and turned to follow him back into the fray. 

Yuanrang was right: the man knew exactly what his role during this battle had been, and he had resigned himself not only to accepting it, but doing his best to prove himself. Mengde, Yuanrang thought, would be very pleased to be proven right in his judgment of character once more. 

Then he had to focus on the fighting, because the infantry might be terrified and disorganised and demoralised, but there were still the generals to deal with. There should be an even number – four against four; Guan Yunchang, Zhang Fei, Zhao Zilong, and Zhou Yu’s top general whose name was Gan something-or-another – but, for some reason, Zhou Yu had thrown himself into the fray, completely ruining the efforts of the lower ranks to keep fighting.

 _Stupid_.

Like the Cavalry he usually commanded, Wenlië needed no instructions: he took an arrow, notched it, and shot it point-blank at Zhou Yu. The arrowhead found the spot in between the joins of his armour and sunk half of the shaft into the flesh of Zhou Yu’s shoulder. 

Zhou Yu fell from his horse, hitting the ground. He stifled his pain into a low grunt, but already Yuanrang could see his soldiers starting to falter at the sight of their commander brought so low.

“You should start praying, Viceroy Zhou!” Yuanrang called, near to laughter. “Wenlië here has a bad habit of poisoning his arrows.” 

Though Wenlië had never been merciful with his shots, it wasn’t poison he used, but spiked shafts. Still, there was no harm in a little misdirection. 

Gan something-or-another had rushed forward, but it was Zhao Zilong who reached Zhou Yu first, jumping off his horse and running to the Viceroy’s aid. And Zhang He proved himself again: he charged forward, avoiding Zhang Fei’s lunging leap, and set the blade of his spear against Zhao Zilong’s throat right as he slid to a kneel beside Zhou Yu.

At the same time, Wenyuan fired two arrows in quick succession. Gan something-or-another paused as one scraped over his cheek as it passed, and even Zhang Fei stilled when the second glanced deliberately off his armour. As the two of them whirled around to snarl at him, Wenyuan raised his bow and shot at the woman riding towards him from behind them. 

She fell from her horse, the ties keeping her hair in a man-like bun falling apart. Loosened strands scattered all over his face, but Yuanrang could still see the way her mouth opened as if to shout. Before she could say a word, an arrow buried itself into the ground right beside her hand. 

Wenyuan returned the fury in the three pairs of eyes with a dispassionate stare of his own behind his bow.

Silence. Yuanrang raised his one visible eyebrow at Guan Yunchang, and smirked as the man lowered his glaive until the blade touched the ground.

At that, the Sun-Liu soldiers threw down their weapons and dropped to their knees. Some of them started wailing. Yuanrang ignored them. He cared nothing for the screams coming from the men who were still on fire either. 

He nudged his horse forward, drawing his sword with a deliberately-loud shriek of steel against sheath. “Find Gao Lan,” he told Zhang He as he drew up beside him. “Gather the men still alive.”

“Gao Lan is dead,” Zhang He stated flatly. “I saw him fall.”

“Pity,” Yuanrang murmured. “He would be mourned.”

Though Zhang He wasn’t a fool enough to change his expression, Yuanrang could see him the look in his eyes that he didn’t believe a word. Still, he understood his position well enough to urge his horse onward past the defeated generals to do as he was told.

“Viceroy,” Wenlië’s pleasant voice rang out. “I don’t recommend that you do that.” He paused. “Or breathe too hard, if you want to live to see your beloved wife again.”

Yuanrang turned his head just in time to witness Zhou Yu slowly unfurl his fingers from the arrow embedded in his flesh. His lips were pressed into a thin, white line, and a small trail of blood seeped from the corner. 

“Well!” As expected, Zhang Fei was the first to lose his temper. “What are you going to do with us?”

“That,” Yuanrang said, lifting his gaze towards the white-robed figure of Zhuge Liang still standing high above, “depends on whether your strategist has any more tricks up his sleeve.” He rolled his head back so he could look at Zhang Fei upside down. “New troops coming down from a mountain, perhaps?” He waved towards the flatlands around him.

Beside him, Wenyuan’s shoulders shook just once. Yuanrang had to acknowledge the point: maybe he _had_ been spending too much time with Mengde and Fengxiao. He was starting to sound like them.

“There is no more,” Guan Yunchang said, his black eyes fixed upon Yuanrang’s. “It seems, General Xiahou, that you will get to kill me sooner than I had thought.”

“Much as I would love to take your head,” Yuanrang drawled, “I am but a lowly soldier awaiting orders.”

Guan Yunchang opened his mouth. But before Yuanrang had to withstand hearing his voice again, a sound entirely unsuited to a battlefield reached their ears.

The carriage was drawn by two horses, but the beat of their hooves, as well as the hooves of the horse beside it, was entirely drowned out by the clacking of the wheels themselves. Just barely a few metres away from what had been the outer edge of the formation that the Sun-Liu army had used, the carriage stopped.

As Yuanrang watched, amused despite himself, Mengde swung himself off of his horse. He walked to the carriage’s side, holding up a hand. Pale fingers wrapped around Mengde’s before the curtain was swept out of the way.

Fengxiao had really gone all out in his disguise as a concubine. Not only was he in several layers to obscure his masculine figure and a thick veil to hide his square jaw, he was also wearing a wide-brimmed hat with more white silk cascading from the edges. Absolutely nothing of his face or body could be seen properly, which meant that when Mengde wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him close enough to whisper into his ear, every single man in the vicinity came to their own conclusions about his identity.

“The villain Cao dares to bring a woman to the battlefield?” Zhang Fei shouted, incredulous.

“Didn’t your army use a woman to lure Gao Lan and myself?” Zhang He’s voice rang out. Out of the corner of his eye, Yuanrang saw a small group of struggling men head towards those waiting outside the broken formation, protected by the Tiger and Leopard Cavalry and Martial Guard.

“Those were great shots you made, by the way,” Zhang He continued, eyes on the woman who had tried to rush to Zhou Yu’s defence. “Good use of your sex to rile Gao Lan up enough to walk straight into an ambush, too.” Then he seemed to realise the incredulous stares at him, and shrugged. “Should I not acknowledge skill where it is due?” 

“General Zhang,” Wenyuan said without moving an inch. “You made me lose a bet with His Excellency and his concubine: I told them this ploy wouldn’t work because you’re not that stupid, and now I must eat my words.”

Zhang He’s eyes widened very slightly at the mention of _concubine_ , but he recovered remarkably quickly, “I beg your forgiveness.” A very brief and very deliberate pause. “General Zhang.”

Yuanrang stifled a laugh. This man would fit in just fine.

“If we’re currently on the topic of praising the enemy,” Wenlië said suddenly, “I must say, Princess,” he dipped his head to the woman, “you are a beauty who wields death on her fingertips, and I am struck by admiration.”

“Not so much that you didn’t shoot Gongjin,” the woman snarled.

Wenlië blinked. “I take your praise of my capabilities gladly,” he said. When he bowed this time, his hand rested on top of his heart.

“I’m not—”

“ _Shangxiang_ ,” Zhou Yu growled.

Ah. So, _this_ was Sun Quan’s younger sister.

Yuanrang turned at a movement at the corner of his eye. Fengxiao had slipped back inside the carriage, but Mengde had not mounted his horse again. Though he knew that his lord would not be able to see him, Yuanrang nodded anyway.

“Let’s go,” he announced. Then, before he could be questioned by the enemy, he lifted his sword from Zhao Zilong’s throat and turned to Guan Yunchang: “That is three lives that you owe Mengde now, Guan-gong.” He gave a mocking twist to the title that the man had never deserved. “At this rate, you must become an immortal just to repay him.” 

“Wait—” Sun Shangxiang started, but she fell silent at another glare from Zhou Yu.

Weapons lowered, Yuanrang led Mengde’s army in their retreat towards their lord. Wenyuan brought up the rear, and Yuanrang heard him say:

“His Excellency’s concubine insisted on taking a look at the battle, and true gentlemen try to not shed blood in front of a woman.”

Laughing, Yuanrang continued, loud enough to be heard by the men that he’s now approaching: “The war won’t be over even if we kill all of you now.” He twisted his head back to stare once more in the direction of Zhuge Liang, still on the distance.

“But know that we could.”

With that, he kicked his horse into a faster trot, and returned to Mengde’s side. 

Beyond her window, the surface of Lake Dongtian glittered like crystals when the sun shone upon it, its splendour almost entirely untouched by Cao Cao’s ships that loomed, waiting, in the distance. Even the smoke that she could still smell, from the pyres made of dead men – all of them sons and brothers and fathers and lovers who would never return home to those who loved them – whose lives were lost to Cao Cao’s schemes, did not seem to affect the lake in any way.

These past weeks of war.

With trembling fingers, Xiao Qiao reached up and removed the handkerchief she had wrapped around her nose and mouth while caring for the sick. Mister Zhuge had done the best he could with the knowledge he had of herbs and medicines, but the plague that had spread to their men from the bodies that Cao Cao had sent over the lake was entirely unrelenting. Thousands had already died.

She was not a fool; she knew that there were good and strong reasons for lords to wage war against each other, especially in this time of chaos. Yet she couldn’t help but think that words like _sovereignty_ and _righteousness_ were hollow and empty when the echoes of men in pain still rang in her ears. When she could see nature, untouched and uncaring, right ahead of her.

“You shouldn’t go to the healing tents in your condition.”

The soldiers were not the only ones who had suffered, either. Turning, Xiao Qiao lowered her head. “Older sister,” she murmured in greeting.

Da Qiao swept into the room with the regal of a woman who had once been the wife of a Marquis, but her stiff shoulders and pursed lips only threw into stark relief the dark circles above her cheeks, and the shadows within the depths of her eyes. Xiao Qiao bit the inside of her cheek, averting her gaze politely.

Her older sister had been living in Chaisang, almost two hundred miles from the Red Cliffs. But Cao Cao had attacked Chaisang while Xiao Qiao’s husband and his men were still reeling from their first defeat, and had captured the city. It might have been a stronghold, but with only a skeleton crew to man it with the majority of the soldiers stationed here at the Red Cliffs to fight Cao Cao… They hadn’t stood a chance against the elite troops that Cao Cao had sent.

It was only by a matter of fortune that Da Qiao had managed to escape and make her way here, especially when Cao Cao started attacking the commanderies and villages in between as well. 

Xiao Qiao did not need to be well-versed in strategy to know what he was doing: cutting off supply routes and food sources for the army in the Red Cliffs, and forcing all of them into a siege.

“Look at you,” Da Qiao said, tipping her chin up and tutting lightly under her tongue. “There is soot on your face, little sister.” Gentle fingers swiped over her cheek before she retreated. “I take it that you haven’t told your husband your news.”

“He is occupied by the war,” Xiao Qiao tried to explain. “I do not wish to distract him.”

“Men fight better and fiercer when they have something to protect,” Da Qiao told her, lips quirking upwards at one corner. “Will you withhold from him so powerful an incentive?”

Turning away from her sister’s eyes, Xiao Qiao looked out of the window again. Cao Cao’s ships still stood there, on the opposite shore. 

She was a woman, and one content with the role a woman could play; thus, she had never attended a war council, and never desired to do so. Still, she knew from her understanding of her husband that he had been gambling on fighting Cao Cao on water, where his superior expertise and experience would pull him ahead.

But ever since those ships had settled in Jiangling, they had not moved a single inch. The only boats of Cao Cao’s that she had seen used were those used to send his plague-stricken dead to them.

She did not need to attend the war councils to know that her husband was losing. And badly enough that she could not imagine how any wish he might have to protect her and their child could help him win. If anything, it would only turn him desperate and careless.

No, she could not tell him.

“We women are oft compared to flowers,” she said softly. “Petals floating amidst the winds of life that cares nothing of our sorrows and worries.” 

“Those are the words of a woman who has resigned herself to defeat,” a voice snorted from behind her.

Her sister had not lived alone in Chaisang, and had not travelled alone from it either; she always had her mother-in-law with her. Turning, Xiao Qiao bent her knees and lowered her head by instinct. “Lady Wu.”

“Flowers though we might be, but our stems can have thorns, and petals can carry weight,” Lady Wu said, every word crisp as she returned Xiao Qiao’s greeting with a sharp nod. “We might be able to do little, but is that not reason for every action and word to be planned carefully? 

“The lady is wise,” Xiao Qiao murmured. “But this lowly daughter,” being the mother-in-law of her sister, and the mother of her husband’s sworn brother, Lady Wu was technically Xiao Qiao’s mother-in-law as well, “does not know what she can do.”

“You have a reputation that can be wielded as fiercely as any sword,” Lady Wu said. “And surely your gentle nature does not mean that you lack a mind?”

Before Xiao Qiao could reply – though what she could say, she did not know – footsteps resounded through the house. Wooden floorboards trembled as heavy feet came towards her.

“Xiao Qiao!” Her husband’s familiar voice arrived but moments before he did, a frown creasing between his brows. He barely acknowledged her sister and mother-in-law with nods as they stepped back, intent on his path towards her.

His hands gripped her shoulders, tight enough to bruise, as his gaze fixed upon her. “What is this I hear about you tending to the sick soldiers?”

Lifting her head, Xiao Qiao met his gaze squarely. “Not only the soldiers, lord husband, but the civilians as well. As disease knows no bounds, neither will my care.” She reached up and laid a hand gently on his elbow. “Even our lord himself can be found boiling the medicines that Mister Zhuge had prescribed us to make; will you not allow me to do my part as well?”

“I—” Her husband started. Then he shook his head hard, releasing her to stare out to the lake. No, towards the ships and, she was sure, Cao Cao behind them. “I will not be able to deal with it if you fall sick, Xiao Qiao.”

“My body is strong,” Xiao Qiao said, aware of the presence of the other two women in the room and therefore the proprieties she must observe. “You will not lose me to disease, lord husband; so, I beg of you to not confine me here to do nothing.”

He whirled around to stare at her, and his hand trembled minutely as he reached up to cup her jaw. Xiao Qiao closed her eyes so she could pretend that they were alone. “Ah, Xiao Qiao…” her husband whispered, his thumb stroking over the curve of one cheek. “I must win this war. If not…” he trailed off, hand dropping back to his side. “No, I must think. Leave me to think.”

Xiao Qiao’s eyes snapped open, but her husband was already storming out of the room, hands curled into fists by his side. “What—” she started, blinking hard.

“Come,” a hand curled around her arm, half-leading and half-dragging her towards the low table in the corner of the room. Xiao Qiao wasn’t entirely sure if she had deliberately sat down or had fallen, her mind too consumed by the look in her husband’s eyes.

She had never seen him like that before; had never once thought he could look like that. Lips pale with agonising terror, eyes dark with a helpless sort of anger… He had been in war council with the others since the morning. What…

What could have happened? What could he have heard?

The click of wood against wood as the sliding door closed. The familiar smell of tea. Xiao Qiao blinked at the sight of Lady Wu ladling liquid from a pot into three shallow saucers. “I do not have the skill you do,” she said, pushing one over to Xiao Qiao. “But it should suffice to calm your nerves.” 

“This lowly daughter does not dare to claim to any such skill.” The expected words fell from her lips as she wrapped her hands around the tea. The saucer had warmed from the liquid, and it did help to settle her a little.

“There are times where one must be modest,” Lady Wu said, “and times when one must make use of the strengths that they have.”

Xiao Qiao blinked. There was a certain strength to those words… She lifted her head. “What do you mean, honoured lady?”

Lady Wu chuckled, waving a hand towards Da Qiao. “Tell her, daughter-in-law,” she said. “It will be swallowed easier coming from a sister.”

“Yes, mother,” Da Qiao nodded. She shifted slightly in her seat before tilting her head, meeting Xiao Qiao’s curious gaze with the solemn ones of her own. “You know that Cao Cao is rumoured to have brought one of his concubines with him.”

Every soldier who had survived the disastrous first engagement against Cao Cao’s army had talked about how the supposed Chancellor of the Han Dynasty had been audacious enough to bring his concubine to the battlefield to show off his victory. Even her husband’s personal servants, all of whom were exceedingly proper, had whispered enough about it that she had heard.

He hadn’t told her, of course. He knew how much she hated war, and wished for her to have as little contact with it as possible.

“Lady Wu has received reports,” Da Qiao continued, “that Cao Cao keeps his concubine covered in silks, and no one has ever seen her face.”

From the eyes of the women in front of her, Xiao Qiao knew that they, too, were trying their best to not think about _where_ those reports had come from. Still, she hoped that Shangxiang was doing well.

“What does that have to do with me?” she asked.

“Two Generals have managed to see her face,” Da Qiao told her. “They were overheard to say that she greatly resembles a drawing that Cao Cao hangs in his personal quarters.” She raised her saucer and took a long sip of tea. “One that was born from Cao Cao’s own pen, and which, the Generals have said, he admits to be of…”

She didn’t need to continue.

“Cao Cao has a painting of me,” Xiao Qiao said, stunned. “And he… brings a concubine from Xu and clearly treasures her…” Every word seemed stuck at the back of her throat. “Because she looks like me.”

“Our source is trying to spread rumours that this supposed war for the unification of the lands,” Lady Wu’s voice had a trace of irony in it, “is actually for the sake of his desire for a woman.”

“For me.” Xiao Qiao blinked once.

“The Southlands have the two Qiaos,” Lady Wu recited the common saying, “while the North has Lady Zhen.” Lady Zhen was, Xiao Qiao vaguely recalled, the wife of Cao Pi, Cao Cao’s eldest surviving son.

Lady Wu smiled, sharp at the edges. “And we all know the rumours of how Cao Cao lusts after his own daughter-in-law. Why is it a surprise that he would desire other men’s wives as well?”

Xiao Qiao looked down at her saucer of tea. When she took a sip, it was warm but bitter on her tongue.

“I see now the reason for my husband’s anger,” she said carefully. “But I still don’t understand what you mean, Lady Wu, for me to play on my strengths.” 

“Beauty is the greatest treasure that a woman can hold,” Lady Wu reminded. “It is a pity that most women do not understand that though gold and silver are soft metals, they are still sharper than the skin of a man’s throat.”

 _Oh_. Xiao Qiao blinked. “You would have me act like Diaochan?” she asked, befuddled. “To… to use Cao Cao’s desire for me to lead him to his doom?”

“We wish for you to consider doing so,” her sister said, eyes lowered.

Diaochan had been but a maid under the tyrant Dong Zhuo’s service, and she had caught the eye of Lü Bu, Dong Zhuo’s adopted son. Lü Bu had feared that Dong Zhuo would find out that he was infatuated with one of his servants and take her away from him, and thus murdered Dong Zhuo. 

Or so the official reports had said; the rumours had abounded wildly that Diaochan had played a direct role in sowing the seeds of discord, and some even said that she had practically guided Lü Bu’s hand into patricide. 

Even though everyone who knew the truth was dead, and even though if those rumours were true, Diaochan should be awarded for helping to rid the land of a great tyrant, her name was repudiated. In a few years, her reputation would become akin to that of Daji, who had led to the downfall of the Shang dynasty, and Zhao Feiyan, who was believed to have murdered the sons of her husband’s concubines.

“I do not know if I can,” she said. 

Throughout her marriage, she had always striven to be a good wife. And with this child, she hoped to be a wise mother. Doing this would go directly against every attempt she had made to live up to that ideal.

“Look at me, child,” Lady Wu said. 

Xiao Qiao did not want to, but her gaze lifted before she could help herself.

“When my husband came to court me, my father told him no, for he thought him a rude, stupid upstart.” She smiled, shaking her head. “My husband was very angry at his attempt at refusal, so I told them that if the marriage turns out to be bad, then it will be my fate.”

Her heavy gaze shifted from Xiao Qiao to Da Qiao before she sighed. “Though your marriages were arranged, you were as fortunate as I was: your husbands not only admired your beauty, but fell for your characters as well.” 

Xiao Qiao dipped her head down, trying to hide her flush at having her marriage dissected so succinctly. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her sister do the same. 

“But,” Lady Wu continued, “there is a time when a woman must take control of her fate in whatever way she can. A time when her attempts to do so will change the fate of those around her.”

“Honoured lady,” Xiao Qiao started, but stopped when the older woman raised a hand. She swallowed back the urge to apologise when Lady Wu fixed her eyes on her again.

“Tell me, Xiao Qiao,” she said, “do you believe helping your husband achieve his ambitions would be betraying him?”

“I…”

“Has he not given you reason aplenty to do whatever you can for his sake?” Lady Wu demanded.

Xiao Qiao thought of her husband, his eyes wild with worry and rage at the mere thought of a man as powerful and ruthless as Cao Cao desiring her. She recalled his gentle laughter when she had messed up the bandages she had tried to wrap around the wound on his shoulder. 

Her husband was a soldier. He might hold the position of a Viceroy, own lands in several commanderies, and had a deft hand with the zither and the flute, but the core of him was, in the end, that of a rough soldier, with heavy calluses on his fingers to match. Yet he had always touched her with tenderness and care, as if she was a piece of porcelain he feared would shatter upon being handled wrongly.

The very least she could say of him was that he was kind. For many husbands, that word would not even fit. 

“Honoured lady,” Xiao Qiao murmured, lowering her head until her nose nearly touched the wooden surface of the table. “Please instruct this lowly daughter.”

“Wait for a chance,” Lady Wu said, her words punctuated with the satisfied-sounding click of ceramic saucer on wood. “When it comes, take it with both hands, and do not hesitate.”

Unfolding her legs, Xiao Qiao knelt and bowed down deep enough to touch her forehead to the wooden floor. “Thank you for your guidance, honoured lady,” she said.

“Good,” Lady Wu said. Xiao Qiao did not need to look to know her decisive nod. “I will soon leave you sisters to talk among yourselves, but there is just one last thing I wish to say.”

Xiao Qiao waited.

“When I first married my husband, he was lowborn, his rank fitting the disparaging terms that my relatives had used on him.” The wooden floor shuddered lightly as Lady Wu got to her feet. “But he rose rapidly in rank until he matched, and then exceeded, my status at birth. I started off as the wife of a law enforcement officer, and then I was the wife of a lord.”

Her footsteps thudded softly throughout the room. “Do not forget, Xiao Qiao, you did not only marry Zhou Gongjin. You married the Viceroy of the Southlands, charged with the protection of the region’s entirety.” The paper covering of the sliding door rumbled as Lady Wu slid it open. 

“Your household is not merely this small estate, Xiao Qiao,” Lady Wu pronounced. “It is the whole of the Southlands.” With that, she left, and closed the door behind her. 

Xiao Qiao let out a long, shuddering breath, lifting her head. Her sister’s face was blank as she emptied their cups into the small pot kept for this purpose, and refilled both of their saucers. As Xiao Qiao shifted to sit instead of kneel, Da Qiao took Lady Wu’s cup, and turned it upside down.

“Do you remember, little sister,” Da Qiao murmured, “how we once hoped to marry scholars, for they would give us a quiet life?”

“I do,” Xiao Qiao said, keeping her eyes her saucer of tea.

“My life in Chaisang had been quiet,” Da Qiao said, “where my greatest priority was the care of my son and three daughters.” When Xiao Qiao peeked at her through her lashes, her sister’s eyes was fixed upon the lake beyond the window, and her gaze was far away.

“Yet I would give up every moment of peace,” Da Qiao continued, “and face war once more on my doorstep, if it means that I could have my husband back by my side.” 

Xiao Qiao sipped her tea. It was warm, but bitter. 

“I understand, older sister,” she said.

She knew what she had to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fucking _hate_ the fact that almost every single canon refer to Xiao Qiao as, well, _Xiao Qiao_. That’s not a name, much less hers: it’s the title she has been given because she’s the younger daughter of Lord Qiao, and her name was never officially recorded. But since every canon gave those as her names… Sigh.
> 
> Anyway, with the exception of Diaochan, every woman mentioned in the second scene really did exist. Yes, including Lady Wu. She is _fucking awesome_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Courtesy names:  
> Zhou Yu: Gongjin; Zhuge Liang: Kongming; Xu Chu: Zhongkang; Xun Yu: Wenruo; Liu Bei: Xuande.

**谁将 浮名牵系**  
_“Who will capture our unmoored names?”_

Beneath the thin white silk that covered his face, Fengxiao watched the defeated enemy be dragged into the room. 

True to form, Zhou Gongjin kept his shoulders straight and head held high, body stiff as if he was still wearing the armour that had already been stripped off him. Beside him, Zhuge Kongming swayed with the push from the guards on either side of him, and went on his knees trying to look like he had meant to do so.

Carefully slipping a few fingers from beneath his voluminous sleeves, Fengxiao picked up his saucer of tea. He brought it behind both layers of veils to sip; the liquid was bitter but slid down his throat smoothly.

Entirely unlike Zhou Gongjin’s full-body jerk and widened eyes as his wife and almost-sister were escorted to the room and made to kneel on his other side. His lips parted, but the Lady Qiao was far more discerning than her husband, for she shook her head, and he fell back into silence.

“Get some cushion for the women.” Seated on his throne-like chair in the front of the room, His Shining Excellency waved a hand. “We are not as impolite as to let such worthy treasures kneel on the ground.”

Sun Shangxiang’s lips drew back into a snarl, but the Lady Qiao caught her eye. Whatever the younger woman saw in them made her huff out an annoyed breath, but she did not say a word.

“Why have you brought the women here?” Zhou Gongjin demanded, leaning forward and struggling against the ropes that bound his wrists. “Are you so—” He fell silent when one of the guards struck the back of his head nearly hard enough to send him sprawling to the ground.

Fengxiao returned his saucer to its place on the table in front of him. The soft _click_ drew the attention of both men on the ground. Despite his obvious anger, Zhou Gongjin’s stare didn’t weigh nearly as heavily as the seemingly-calm Zhuge Kongming. Fengxiao nearly smiled.

He folded his hands demurely on his lap as the cushions arrived and were placed in front of the two women. Another gesture from His Shining Excellency, and the ropes tying the women’s wrists together were cut, and the guards retreated to a position closer to the door.

“Now, I believe that all of you have heard of my concubine?” Not even the gesture in Fengxiao’s direction could mask the mockery in His Shining Excellency’s tone. “I am certain, too, that there is plenty that you will wish to discuss with her.”

“This lowly prisoner does not understand,” Zhuge Kongming murmured. “What right have we to interfere with the Chancellor’s household matters?”

His Shining Excellency threw his head back and laughed. Zhuge Kongming’s shoulders twitched slightly, as if he missed the presence of his hawk-feather fan. “Plenty,” His Shining Excellency boomed. “After all, it was my little concubine here,” his fingertips brushed the edge of Fengxiao’s veil, “who came up with the strategies that led to your defeat.”

Before Zhou Gongjin could demand answers – Fengxiao could see the words hovering around his pursed lips – His Shining Excellency swept out of the room, chuckling with every step. The two guards stationed at the door stepped out of his way, then closed it behind him and stood in front of it. Their swords glinted under the bare sunlight coming from the windows as the blades crossed in front of paper and wood.

Moving the low table in front of him out of the way, Fengxiao stood. His fingers lingered at the collar of his outermost robe before he slipped it off, letting the silk fall into a pool of cloth beneath his feet. The Lady Qiao made a sound as if in protest, but Fengxiao ignored her, moving to the knots of the next layer, and the next, shedding cloth like a snake did its skin. 

Zhou Gongjin’s heavy intake of breath told Fengxiao that the broadness of his shoulders had been noticed. Smiling to himself, he reached up and plucked the hat with its thin veil from his head.

His hair was still loosely tied in a woman’s style; there was no time to redo it now. Instead, he found the knot buried beneath the strands, and let the last piece of cloth obscuring his identity fall.

As the Lady Qiao pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle her sound of surprise, Fengxiao stepped forward. “Guo Fengxiao,” with one hand on his chest, he bowed low, “at your service.” 

“You’re supposed to be dead!” Sun Shangxiang blurted out.

Glancing at her through the corner of his eye, Fengxiao smiled. “The Princess’s concern is greatly appreciated.”

Brows creasing, Shangxiang opened her mouth. But before she could speak, Zhuge Kongming chuckled.

“It takes a remarkable man,” he said, voice barely above a murmur, “to withstand the guise of a woman for so long.”

Fengxiao turned to him. Very deliberately, he placed both hands on his hips, and bent his knees in perfect imitation of a concubine’s greeting to a man who served a different lord than she did. “This unworthy woman,” he deepened his voice even further, “does not deserve high compliments from such a well-reputed man.”

Zhuge Kongming’s smile widened. But his shoulder twitched again.

“No wonder we lost,” Zhou Gongjin drawled, eyes fixed upon Fengxiao. “We thought that we were setting ourselves up against Cao Cao, and did not account for _you_.”

“His Shining Excellency would be hurt that you think so little of his abilities,” Fengxiao returned. “But he will be gratified, too, that you estimate my strengths so highly.”

“Is your foresight not reputed to be akin to a ghost’s?” Zhou Gongjin arched a brow. “Or is the man standing in front of me _not_ the ‘Demonic Talent Guo Fengxiao’?”

“Rumours exaggerate,” Fengxiao demurred, though he couldn’t help grinning that his name had spread so far and wide. He made to say more, but there were heavy footsteps approaching the door. He folded his hands back into his sleeves instead, and turned his eyes to watch the Lady Qiao as heavy thumps resounded through the room.

For a woman with enough courage to walk into the enemy’s territory without an escort – an enemy rumoured to desire her so badly that he was willing to wage a war to have her – she had reacted with such surprise that a mere woman could be so much more than what ‘she’ seemed. Was it because she agreed with her husband, and did not think it possible for a man to be so willing to lower himself to a woman’s position? Or was she so shocked by the revelation of his identity, and the falseness of the rumours surrounding His Shining Excellency’s intentions, that she knew not what to do?

Fengxiao wondered. He might have looked upon the chessboard of this war against the Sun-Liu coalition eager to pit his wits against Zhou Gongjin and Zhuge Kongming, but no one had quite captured his attention as this woman had. This wife of Zhou Gongjin, who was not even known by her given name, but instead by an epithet that denoted her as the younger daughter of her father.

“Delivery for— _Fengxiao_!” 

“Colonel Xu,” Fengxiao dipped his head to His Shining Excellency’s bodyguard. “I am glad to see you unharmed by the battle.”

Xu Zhongkang snorted. “I should’ve known that a little fever can’t kill a fox like you,” he said, striding forward. His slap across Fengxiao’s back was nearly hard enough to make him stumble. “Should I inform the others?”

“Not yet,” Fengxiao told him. “I beg you to be patient for a few more days.”

“What for?” The burly man frowned. “The fact that you’re alive should be celebrated alongside our victory, especially since you’re most likely the one who helped us win it.”

“The letters sent to Xu two weeks ago,” Fengxiao said carefully, “would not have arrived yet.”

Xu Zhongkang blinked, clearly uncomprehending. But Fengxiao did not want him to understand; did not wish to reveal that he had taken a risk by writing about his own survival, in his own handwriting, in a letter to his beloved friend Wenruo, who was back in Xu taking care of His Shining Excellency’s court.

Fengxiao had only one regret about his ruse: Wenruo had shed tears upon knowing of his death, and would sob even harder to know that he was alive. Such pain, Fengxiao knew, would be difficult to forget, and he could only hope that Wenruo could eventually find it within himself to forgive him.

Being the first to be directly told of Fengxiao’s survival by Fengxiao himself… Perhaps that would win him some favour.

“I give up,” Xu Zhongkang boomed a laugh. “In any case, His Excellency told me to bring you this.” He dropped the massive scroll where he had been keeping it under his arm, caught it with both hands, and held it out.

“Thank you, Colonel,” Fengxiao said. “You should not have been given such menial duties.”

“So I thought,” Xu Zhongkang laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “But seeing you here… Well, that makes His Excellency’s intentions clear.” He glanced at Fengxiao for a moment more before his arms rose and his head dipped down sharply. “It is truly wonderful to see you alive, Military Libationer,” he said, using Fengxiao’s official position that had been left empty. “This lowly soldier will now take his leave.”

Nodding to him one more time, Fengxiao turned away to the wall in front of him. Before he could even unroll the scroll to pin it up, however, one of the guards came and took it from him. Fengxiao blinked, catching the man’s eyes – like every other soldier left in the room, he was part of His Shining Excellency’s personal Martial Guard – before he had to stifle a chuckle.

They would keep his secret. But they, too, wished to show him whatever form of gratitude they could, separate from the rewards that His Shining Excellency would give him.

Fengxiao had not been well-liked by the men when he had been officially alive, and it seemed that his sudden and unexpected ‘death’ had done wonders for his reputation. Still, how long would this goodwill last, especially when he could speak to them in public again and they remembered all of the reasons why they had been so irritated by his presence?

He shook the thoughts away, returning to the map now pinned to the wall. Richly and carefully detailed, it had been a gift from Cai Mao to His Shining Excellency, serving both as token of gratitude for being allowed to surrender and live, and as proof of his sincerity to serve. Fengxiao reached out, and traced a finger over the ink depicting the Yangtze and its tributaries, the depths and currents marked out whenever they changed.

“Out of curiosity,” he said, finally turning back to his patiently waiting prisoners, “how much do you want to know of the reasons why you lost so badly?”

“Mere lowly prisoners would not dare to infringe on Lord Guo’s privilege to brag,” Zhuge Kongming said, head slightly lowered. “Especially when he wishes to make use of it.”

“A clever response from a clever man,” Fengxiao said. “What of you, Viceroy?”

Zhou Gongjin met his eyes, and did not speak.

Fengxiao chuckled. “So be it.” He turned to the map.

“Let us begin at Jing Province,” Fengxiao pointed to the spot in the map. “Liu Biao’s death came at a fortuitous time for all of us, for his two sons had little experience and were distracted by their conflict with each other. But your lord, Strategist Zhuge,” he smiled at the man, “tried to put up a fight at Jiangxia,” his fingers moved to that particular town, “and though his efforts were valiant, they came to naught at Changban.” He tapped that spot on the map.

“Have you ever wondered, Strategist,” he tilted his head, “why it is that His Shining Excellency did not give chase at Changban? It is rumoured, after all, that he hates Liu Bei so much that he would do anything to kill him.”

Zhuge Kongming did not reply.

“When His Shining Excellency set out from Xu,” Fengxiao continued, “he carried an edict from the Emperor that ordered him to capture Jing Province,” a sneaking glance towards the stiffening Zhou Gongjin, whose lord supposedly owned that Province now that Liu Biao and his heirs were all dead, “and to put down the rebels Liu Bei and Sun Quan.” His lips curved up further.

“Did you believe your alliance was in any way unforeseen?”

Silence. Not even Sun Shangxiang was careless or foolish enough to attempt to speak.

“That brings us to the first battle,” Fengxiao said, turning back to the map. “Given that you are cunning, Strategist Zhuge, and you are wise, Viceroy Zhou, it was not difficult to predict that you would lay an ambush.” Fengxiao folded his hands into his sleeves. “All that needs to be done is to ensure that our men fall into it.”

“You would sacrifice your own men?” Ah, Zhou Gongjin had finally broken his silence. “You would—” 

“All men knew that to be a soldier is to court death,” Fengxiao interrupted before he had to listen to a diatribe about honour and righteousness. “Especially men, like you surely noted, whose loyalty to their new lord had not been proven.” He smiled with one corner of his mouth. “Have you not heard? His Shining Excellency lusts after men of talent, and can spot them from miles away. Do you truly expect him to not have chosen the perfect generals to accomplish this task?”

“I never got his name,” Zhuge Kongming said musingly. “The general who survived our ambush.”

“Zhang He,” Fengxiao answered. “I predict that he will have a long and illustrious career under His Shining Excellency in the future.” Then, before the conversation could derail further, he turned back to the map.

“The very first battle had led to a loss. Couple that with your belief in the superior numbers of His Shining Excellency’s troops, that was surely a great blow to your soldiers’ morale.” He hummed softly under his breath. “And it was fortunate, for us, that you had gathered the majority of your soldiers at the Red Cliffs.”

He folded his hands. “Jiangling does not have enough resources to house, feed, and arm eight hundred thousand soldiers—” 

“It was a filthy trick,” Zhou Gongjin snarled, pulling against his bonds, “to attack villages and towns behind your enemies’ back—” 

“Only if our intention was to loot and pillage,” Fengxiao cut him off smoothly. “Which His Shining Excellency’s soldiers have never done.” There was no need for them to: they had food aplenty, their wages had always been paid on time, and they regularly were allowed to send letters to their families.

“Which reminds me,” he said lightly, “are the rumours true, Viceroy Zhou? That most of your soldiers used to be pirates, and many have not broken from their immoral ways? That they would steal even from the villages surrounding the Red Cliffs?”

Zhou Gongjin opened his mouth. But before he could speak, he was interrupted again. By a _very_ surprising source.

“You cannot blame hungry men for taking what they can to feed themselves,” the Lady Qiao said, voice calm and eyes fixed on the cushion beneath her knees. “Especially in wartime, when training and fighting force them to exert more energy than their straining bodies can spare.”

“The Lady Qiao lives up to her reputation of compassion and wisdom,” Fengxiao murmured, turning his eyes to her. “The model of a wife, indeed.” 

She dipped her head down in acknowledgment, but spoke no further. A pity, really; she was one of the few people in the world whose thoughts he actually would like to listen to.

“Your men were hungry,” Fengxiao continued, “for Lu Zijing’s funds could not cover the breaking of trade routes and the occupation of the towns around the Red Cliffs.” His gaze shifted to Zhou Gongjin again. “But surely they would be enraged by the news that their families had been captured and their lands taken from them?”

In response, Zhou Gongjin drew his lips back and bared his teeth, and Fengxiao returned a smile.

The letters sent from the civilians from Chaisang and the other towns reported the opposite; of being treated well as the occupying governors loaned them extra farm equipment for no charge, and the invading soldiers settling down to farm alongside them. They had even been promised to be allowed to keep half of the next harvest rather than having it all be confiscated like they had expected.

One of the reasons why Fengxiao had chosen to settle down from his wanderings and serve His Shining Excellency, he recalled fondly, was the lord’s ingenious _tuntian_ scheme. 

“If you do not blame hungry men for being resentful towards their lords,” Fengxiao said, eyes fixed upon Zhou Gongjin, “you cannot fault them for looking towards another lord either. Especially one whom they had heard to be a villain but who instead showed their families kindness.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “They were hungry, and did not have rage to serve as distraction against their hunger. They were fearful, too, for sickness had descended upon the whole of your camps.” His lips curved up slightly. “Did you expect your soldiers to be eager to raise their weapons against His Shining Excellency?”

Letting out a deep sigh, Zhuge Kongming shook his head. “You waged not a war of weapons clashing, Guo Fengxiao,” he said. “But one of men’s hearts.”

“Wars have always been about men’s hearts,” Fengxiao corrected. “For though lords were blessed by the heavens with the right to arm soldiers, and strategists gifted with the intelligence to move them into the correct positions, neither can accomplish anything if the soldier refuses to lift his spear. And the soldier wants for simple things: food, a roof over his head, his family’s safety, and clean water.” 

Ah, there it was— the barest twitch of Zhuge Kongming’s shoulder when he realised just why His Shining Excellency had sent those plague-stricken bodies across Lake Dongtian; why, despite the best efforts of their doctors, the sickness continued to spread without end.

Fengxiao could not take credit for the idea of poisoning the lake; that had entirely been His Shining Excellency’s. A marvellous show of ruthlessness. And efficiency, too, for they had saved wood by boiling water with the same fires used to warm houses.

(How Hua Tuo had come up with the idea that boiling water would stop the spread of the disease, Fengxiao did not know. But he expected no less from a man called _the god of doctors_.)

He let out a low, soft laugh. “Throughout this war, everything has gone almost exactly as I had predicted,” Fengxiao continued. “But for one.” His eyes shifted. “Do you know what it is, Lady Qiao?”

Her eyes flicked up, wide and startled at being suddenly addressed. “I…” she hesitated, and then slowly shook her head. 

“You.”

“This unworthy woman does not deserve such words,” the Lady Qiao ducked her head down immediately.

“I had rumours spread of His Shining Excellency’s lusts for you merely to enrage your husband,” Fengxiao told her. “But I did not expect that you would actually come. Much less as a distraction."

Lit by the moonlight, wreathed in mist, she had been beautiful when she had stepped onto the shore from the small rowboat. Fengxiao had hidden himself, watching as she had led His Shining Excellency into his own sitting room, shifting to display herself best in the candlelight as she made the delicious tea that she was famed for, and distracted him for over an hour while Zhou Gongjin’s ships had crawled, inch by inch, over the lake to Jiangling.

She would have become a legend if the ruse had worked. A pity, really, that it hadn’t.

Not only for her sake, but for history's as well: Fengxiao would have loved to witness how her deeds would be told within the next decade. Would she have become another Daji, cunning and using her beauty to inflict cruelties? Or would she have become an obedient victim like Lady Bo, who remained so faithful to the edicts that she hadn’t dared to step out of her rooms unaccompanied even as she burnt to death? 

Or would she have become a different kind of woman entirely, one whose like had never been recorded? 

“This unworthy woman has merely done her duty,” the Lady Qiao said. Her eyes were still fixed on the floor.

“Most would think that a woman’s duty is to keep away from the battlefield,” Fengxiao said, amused despite himself. For all that she was trying to justify her actions now as those of a good wife, the fact that she had crossed the lake had already gone against all tenets of wifely behaviour. 

“They would blame you for taking such reckless action,” he continued, “because you distracted your husband from performing his duties.” 

“If that is so,” the Lady Qiao said, finally tipping her head up to meet Fengxiao’s eyes. “Then I will take the rancour of both people and history gladly.”

“You do not regret your actions?” Fengxiao cocked his head to the side. “Even if you have given away the spotlessness of your reputation for nothing?” 

“A woman’s privilege,” the Lady Qiao murmured, “is to have her name kept from the mouths of men and history, for to have it said too much changes it to filth and dirt.” Daji. Zhao Feiyan and her sister, Zhao Hede. Despite their high ranks as consorts of Emperors, none of them had the privilege of being named _Lady_ when referred to by those who came and would come after them. Not even by common peasants.

The Lady Qiao’s hands folded delicately on her lap. “Yet I would let go of that privilege to help my husband win this war.” A corner of her lips tugged up into the smallest of smiles. “Is it not a wife’s duty to prioritise the good of her husband and household over herself?” 

Fengxiao blinked at her. After a moment, he threw his head back and laughed, because— “Ah, Lady Qiao,” he shook his head. “It has been years since I have lost an argument, much less so terribly.” 

She looked so startled that Fengxiao had to swallow a laugh. Then, before she could use one of those formal phrases to try to downplay her strength of her character again, he turned towards the other woman in the room.

“What of you, Princess?” He cocked his head. “Were you simply fulfilling your duties to your household by serving as bait for His Shining Excellency’s soldiers and coming to our camp as a spy?”

Her eyes widened. “How did you know that?” she spluttered.

This time, Fengxiao did not even bother to hide his laughter. “There is a young General Cao within our camps who had a chance to take a good look at your face during the first attack,” he told her, lips twitching. “I’m sure that you remember him: he praised you for your beauty and deadliness.”

Sun Shangxiang breathed in sharply. “He—”

“His name is Cao Xiu, courtesy name Wenlië,” Fengxiao said. “It was pure fortune that he caught a glimpse of you in your soldier’s guise, but once he did, he reported to His Shining Excellency immediately.”

“You mean that— you—” she stuttered. It was almost enough for Fengxiao to take pity on her.

“The two Generals you overheard speaking were General Zhang Wenyuan, and General Xiahou Yuanrang,” Fengxiao said, keeping his eyes on her even as he retrieved his fan from his sleeve and snapped it open in front of his face. “Both of whom knew exactly who His Shining Excellency’s ‘concubine’ was, for they receive instructions directly from ‘her.’” 

Lowering the fan slightly, he allowed Sun Shangxiang to see the sharpness of his smile. “I really must thank you, Princess,” he said. “Without your presence in the camp, the rumours that I had spread would not have been delivered to the enemy as quickly.”

Her fingers tangled and clutched at each other on his lap.

“Therefore,” Fengxiao delivered the final blow, “you have some credit in His Shining Excellency’s victory here, Princess.” 

Slowly, her eyes fell to the floor. She went completely still.

“Now, Princess,” he gentled his voice, “will you tell me your reasons for your actions?”

“It was my privilege.” Unlike the previous times when she had spoken, Sun Shangxiang’s voice was flat and dull, as if all of her previous fire had been snuffed out. “My father and eldest brother have given me a great amount of liberty when they included the sword and the bow in my education. To repay them for my kindness, I must use the skills I have for the benefit of my homeland.”

That sounded as formal and false as the Lady Qiao’s attempts. Fengxiao sighed.

“Acts done as repayment are rarely performed with the eagerness that you have shown,” he said. 

Her jaw stiffened, and she turned her head away. Time for another tactic, then.

“Come now, Princess,” Fengxiao said. “I have yet to wed, and Southern women capture my attention far more than any of the fair sex in the North.” His lips curved up further to show a hint of teeth. “Fortunate, isn’t—”

“How _dare_ you?” Zhou Gongjin shouted, launching himself forward. But before he could even cross the distance between him and Fengxiao, the guards had grabbed hold of his shoulders and hair, dragging him back on his feet.

“You dare,” Sun Shangxiang snarled at him. “I might not have my one hundred armed maids, and you might not give me weapons, but I need neither to kill you in your own household if you try to bring me into it!”

“Perhaps the young General Cao would be more suited for you, then,” Fengxiao said, eyes fixed on her and completely ignoring Zhou Gongjin. “Unfortunately, he _is_ married, so you will be but a concubine.”

She rose to her feet with startling speed, her hands reached out to grab at him. Fengxiao laughed as he dodged her first strike and the guards at the door pushed her back to her knees. Beside her, Zhou Gongjin struggled against the hands pushing his face into the floor.

Tapping his closed fan rhythmically against his palm, Fengxiao waited until both of them were reminded of the helplessness of their current situation before he spoke again.

“No, Princess, you cannot even fool yourself into believing that your actions were motivated by duty, much less gratitude,” he said, smiling despite himself as he stepped closer to meet her gaze. “Your motivations were purely selfish: you took the first chance you had to prove your skills and character.” 

Snarling, she tried to bite him. Fengxiao shook his head and smacked her, light like admonishing a child, on the cheek with his fan.

“This lowly prisoner,” Zhuge Kongming said, “wonders why he is so ignored by the Chancellor’s strategist.”

“Because you will die, Zhuge Kongming,” Fengxiao said without turning around. “You and Zhou Gongjin are both slated to the executioner’s block, for His Shining Excellency is not such a fool as to bring two full-grown tigers into his household. What use has a strategist for two dead men?” 

At the Lady Qiao’s horrified gasp, he chuckled. 

“But the women…” he glanced at the Lady Qiao for a moment before his gaze settled back on Sun Shangxiang. “You are allowed to choose to live, for both His Shining Excellency and myself find you two interesting. You will become the ladies-in-waiting for His Shining Excellency’s wife, or his concubines, or mine; any position that sounds palatable enough.”

Rocking back on his heels, he stood again. “Those positions would be the least of your duties, of course. Excuses to allow breath into your bodies until the time when His Shining Excellency has use of your skills and characters.”

“Like hell I would—” Sun Shangxiang growled.

“Why?” The Lady Qiao asked, her soft question cutting off the younger woman mercilessly.

Turning his back on them, Fengxiao headed back to the table. He picked up the heavy veil again, running his fingers over the thick silk before he lifted it to his face, and knotted it beneath his hair.

As he pulled on the layers once more, he asked, “Do you know why I chose to hide as His Shining Excellency’s concubine?”

Silence greeted him. Fengxiao chuckled, chin brushing his chest as he knotted the robes one by one. 

“I pretended to be a woman,” Fengxiao murmured, “for I stood behind my lord, and looked upon the lands he wishes to conquer like a lady would a household under her care.” __  
  
As he put on his hat, he saw a flash of understanding cross the Lady Qiao’s gaze. Sweeping thin cloth away, he smiled widely to let her see the creases in the corners of his eyes.

“That is beyond a concubine’s duties, of course, but I am not audacious enough to pretend to be His Shining Excellency’s wife.”

Letting the veil cover him again, Fengxiao headed for the door. “You will have time to think, Lady Qiao, Princess, if you wish to follow the men of your household into death or if you wish to live and be allowed to use the full measure of your strengths.” His hand splayed on the cool wood of the door.

“But I’d like you to know that, in the eyes of His Shining Excellency, the ones who have proven themselves most with this war are a daughter, a wife, and a concubine.” He turned his head, and met both of their gazes through the veil.

“What a story for the ages it will be,” he said, and left the room

“Once,” Mengde said, “you had a conversation with His Majesty the Emperor, one overheard by the soldiers and farmers around you. Do you remember?”

Seated opposite him, Yunchang was stubbornly silent. Stifling a smile, Mengde lifted his sleeve out of the way as he poured the tea. “You asked him, full of righteous fire, how it could be that a steamed biscuit and a bowl of meat soup could have won me the imperial throne.”

Sliding the cup over, Mengde met Yunchang’s eyes. “It has been ten years since then,” he said. “And I still do not hold the position of Emperor.”

“You hold the position of the Han Chancellor,” Yunchang bit out, “and use it to commit atrocities against the Han.”

“Such trite, common phrases are unbefitting you, Yunchang,” Mengde chided. When Yunchang fell back into silence, not even touching the tea in front of him, Mengde laughed.

“I failed in winning you over when I offered you food, drink, and women,” he said. “I have failed, too, with my offers of victories and a safe place to call home away from your life of wandering. And I know without asking that, even now, you would choose death over coming under my service.” He folded his hands on the table in front of him, elbows akimbo as he leaned forward. 

“So, you have me at a loss, Yunchang. What _can_ I give for you to serve me?”

“Nothing that you own,” Yunchang said, face and voice both impassive. “My service cannot be bought, for it has been given to my honourable elder brother.”

“Honour,” Mengde hummed. “Is it honourable, Yunchang, for Liu Xuande to have plotted to assassinate me after accepting my offer of sanctuary?”

“It is,” Yunchang nodded. “My honoured elder brother’s loyalty to the Emperor supersedes that of his debt to you; therefore, when he realised the depths that you had made the Son of Heaven sink to, he was obliged to forswear that debt for the sake of his true lord.”

That was more of an answer that Mengde had ever expected to gain. He leaned back, sipping at his own tea – showing Yunchang that the pot was not poisoned like he might have expected – as he considered his next words.

“Even though to allow the Emperor power would be disastrous for the land, for he has little experience with the chains of governance or the sword of war?” he asked Yunchang over the rim of his saucer.

“That,” Yunchang said, “is not for you to say.”

“The Emperor could not have won this war,” Mengde pointed out. “He could not have taken these great steps closer to the unification of the Han empire.” Offering Yunchang a thin smile, he stretched a hand out towards him. “To have allowed him to take the reins of government would be to doom the lands to decades more of chaos.”

“Are you so arrogant as to think that you are the only one who can succeed?” Yunchang demanded.

“I do,” Mengde nodded. Ceramic clicked as it touched the wooden surface of the table. “Have you not seen a map lately, Yunchang? How much land is once again under the Han dynasty’s direct control? How much of it has been won directly by me?”

“Yet you did so by cruelly oppressing the people,” Yunchang accused. “So much so that they ran away from you, seeking refuge with my elder brother.”

“And what has your elder brother done with those who have followed him?” Mengde returned immediately. “Has he found food and clean water for them? Has he given them land and farm tools so they can once again find purpose?” He tipped his head slightly to the side. “Or are they still living in tents under the open sky, hoping that, one day, they will be able to find a safe home once more?”

A frown creased Yunchang’s dark brows. “Are you telling me,” he said slowly, “that they will find those with _you_?” 

“Plans have already been made to give them exactly that,” Mengde told him. “They will be allowed to return to their own lands, and materials will be given to them to rebuild homes destroyed during the past battles.” His smile widened.

“Would you consider that to be cruelly oppressing the people? Do you see that to be an atrocity against the Han?”

To his credit, Yunchang did not reply immediately, instead turning his gaze down to stare at the tabletop.

“I do not understand you, Cao Mengde,” he said finally. “You wage war with brutality and dishonour, turning civilian towns into battlefields and causing countless of innocent deaths. You send your own men to their deaths as sacrifices.” That, Mengde thought, must be a reference to the very first battle of this war. “You care nothing for righteousness, for you would judge the Son of Heaven, given the mandate to rule by birth, to be incapable of governance, and snatch power from his hands and treat him as nothing but a pawn.” 

Mengde hummed; he could deny none of those things, and did not wish to. 

“Yet,” Yunchang continued, “upon capturing your enemies, you allow them the option to surrender and serve you with honour. Yet, upon a successful invasion, you look upon the innocents who once swore that they would rather run than be under your power, and you treat them the same as any other under your rule.”

His gaze lifted to meet Mengde’s, and he shook his head again. “I do not understand you,” he said again.

Finishing his tea, Mengde refilled the saucer. But he did not lift it to drink again.

“There is an old riddle,” he said slowly, “and I wonder if you know its answer.” When Yunchang blinked and cocked his head to the side in question, Mengde reached out and nudged the saucer of tea opposite closer to the man.

“Studying Mencius on a rainy day,” Mengde recited slowly. “I find only etiquette, humanity, and wisdom.” He smiled. “What is the answer?”

Circling the rim of the saucer with one finger, Yunchang sighed. “Without passion, without honour,” he said flatly. “A rainy day is without clear skies as much as a passionate man has a clear mind. And out of the four values, only honour is missing.”

“An educated man,” Mengde laughed. 

“I do not see your point,” Yunchang stated bluntly.

“No common farmer can solve the riddle, and no common soldiers can be found reading Mencius on a rainy day,” Mengde said. “Only scholars, officials, and educated generals like yourself can, and even then, they can find only etiquette, humanity, and wisdom. So, where can honour be found? Where can passion?” He spread out his hands.

“Especially in this time of war?” 

Yunchang’s eyes narrowed. Then, clutching the saucer with both hands, he threw it back like it was rice wine. “Without honour, a man is a beast. Without passion, he is little better than a floating leaf.”

“Is that not the lot of almost every man within our chaotic world?” Mengde asked. “Do you not look at the escaped civilians of Jing Province and think them little better than leaves lost and spiralling amidst the typhoons of change? Do you not look upon the soldiers under your command and recognise that their lives are in the hands of you and your elder brother?”

“That is all the more reason that we must behave with honour,” Yunchang challenged. “For if those of us above did not, then how can anyone below understand its value?”

Closing his eyes, Mengde let out a long sigh. He traced the rim of his own saucer and said, soft as a passing breeze, “How many battles has Liu Xuande won through honour?”

Yunchang’s teeth clacked together. A muscle on his jaw twitched.

“The first Emperor, Qin Shi Huang, unified the lands for the first time through the annihilation of millions,” Mengde stated. “The progenitor of the Han dynasty, Emperor Gaozu, renounced the Treaty of Hong Canal, which he had sworn on his father’s name to uphold, to go to war against Xiang Yu, and was awarded with the unification of the land and a dynasty that has lasted four hundred years.” 

Taking a long gulp of his own tea, Mengde shook his head. “Yunchang,” he said softly. “When did you last have the time to read Mencius on a rainy day?”

“You would call me selfish,” Yunchang said, never having been a fool incapable of grasping Mengde’s meaning, “because I choose to uphold honour. You would call my elder brother the same.”

“I would,” Mengde said, averting his gaze from Yunchang’s as he refilled both saucers. “I would call you selfish, too, for remaining a hero when the world needs villains far more.”

“Did you not say once,” Yunchang wrapped his fingers around his own saucer of tea, “that the role of a hero is for me to play, while that of a villain is yours?”

Smiling crookedly, Mengde nodded again. “I will not take back those words,” he said. “Neither will I stop hoping that you will one day agree to become a hero under a villain’s service.”

“That,” Yunchang said softly, “is no hero at all.” 

“You would stubbornly stay a hero?” Mengde asked. “Even if you will never be recognised as such? Even if you might eventually fade into obscurity?” 

“I have never,” Yunchang met his gaze squarely, “behaved with honour for the sake of reputation.” 

There had been no hesitation whatsoever in those words. This time, it was Mengde who tossed his tea back. The sweet-bitter tartness on his tongue was far too smooth. 

“A pity,” he said, setting the cup down and standing. His eyes settled on Yunchang for long moments before he shook his head. “I cannot guarantee a hero’s death, Yunchang, but you will have the burial of one.” His lips lifted up at one corner, giving Yunchang a crooked smile.

“One fitting for a hero who stiffens his spine with honour and passion, and refuses to be budged even when the typhoons threaten to snap him into half.”

Standing as well, Yunchang raised his arms and folded the fingers of one hand behind the other. “This lowly general,” he intoned, voice low and deep, “thanks the Han Chancellor for his kindness.”

“Do not call it kindness, Yunchang,” Mengde said, already turning his back and heading for the door. “This is my own honour, and I act according to it whenever I have a chance.”

Outside of the cell, Mengde could not help but sneak a glance backwards as the doors closed.

Yunchang’s hands were still frozen in his salute, but he had lifted his head. His eyes met Mengde’s for that one brief moment.

They burned.

_On the 14th year of the Jian’an era, Cao Cao won the Battle of the Red Cliffs, and thus conquered the Jing, Yang, and Guang Provinces, bringing the number under his rule to eight out of the Nine Provinces. Over the next decade, he defeated Jin Xuan, Liu Du, Han Xuan, Zhao Fan, and pacified the Nanzhong tribes. By the time of his death in the 25th year of the Jian’an era, only Liu Zhang remained as a holdout against Cao Cao’s army._

_His son Cao Pi, assisted by Cao Cao’s favoured advisors Guo Jia and Xun Yu, as well as his prized generals Xiahou Dun, Zhang Liao, and Cao Xiu, defeated Liu Zhang by the 27th year of the Jian’an era._

_The very next year, Cao Pi abolished the Han dynasty and created the new Wei dynasty. In his first edict, he installed his father posthumously as Emperor Wu of Wei, and gave him the titles of First Emperor and Grand Martial Progenitor._

_A thousand years later, during the Song dynasty, a novel collecting the various folktales, myths, and legends around the Jing, Yang, and Guan Provinces was published and circulated. Focused on the rise and fall of the Sun family of the Southlands, its most famous incident was the climactic Battle of the Red Cliffs, where several characters unknown to most, such as Zhao Yun, Guan Yu, and Zhuge Liang, were introduced to the literate Chinese populace. Throughout the next centuries, the novel cemented its place as one of the classics of Chinese literature, and the names of its characters became known in every household._

_Its name is Jiangdong Yanyi (江东演义)._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Comments inspire and motivate, so please leave one if you have the time.

**Author's Note:**

> If there's any part of the fic that doesn't make sense, please don't hesitate to ask. I wrote a _lot_ of the dialogue in Chinese and then translated in English, and all of the titles used are my own translations.


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